


Delegating

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Is Greg, M/M, Mycroft decides that what's really important in life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 13:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16220072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: In response to the prompt:Your dialogue:"Are you joking?"and"I don't believe you."The circumstances...in the kitchenlate in the eveningAnd you must mention...handcuffsAnd right on time for Soft Smut Sunday! I'm having loads of fun with the prompt generator, in case you hadn't noticed.





	Delegating

“My apologies,” Mycroft stands and dabs his mouth with the cloth napkin. “I have to take care of this.”

Greg knew this might happen, but it still stings. It’s not like they’re actually together, and friends have to be understanding when friends leave dinner early for work. “It’s alright. I’ll clean up, go on.”

“Gregory, you really don’t – ”

Greg laughs at the fond exasperation and looks up over his shoulder into Mycroft’s grey eyes, he’s already put his jacket back on. Gone are the shirt sleeves, gone is the soft at-home Mycroft. “But I will. You cooked. Go save the world.”

“Finish your dinner first,” Mycroft says, one foot in the hallway already, “and have that glass whiskey I promised you. Please. I’m sorry to leave like this.”

How can he resist that? Greg laughs and makes a shooing motion with his hands, they share a smile while Mycroft disappears. Soon after the front door opens and shuts, and Greg is alone in the kitchen of Mycroft’s stupid fancy apartment. He sighs and turns on the radio, before sitting back down with another glass of wine. It’s some classical music and Greg has to admit it goes well with the dinner served in dishes instead of pans, cloth napkins, nice wine on a Tuesday. He takes his time with the food, then puts the leftovers away in what he’s sure messes up Mycroft’s kitchen logic. At least nothing will go bad. He puts everything that looks like it might survive the dishwasher in, and is only halfway through the rest of the dishes, still elbow-deep in soapy water, when the door opens and shuts.

“My?” He calls, half turning. He can’t have been gone for more than an hour. Mycroft appears in the door opening to the kitchen, a back-lit vision with the hallway lamp lighting up the copper in his hair. Greg takes a deep breath and lets himself smile. “Home already?”

“I decided I didn’t want to deal with it,” Mycroft decides, setting his bag down. He’s still wearing his coat and his gloves. “I instructed my assistant on how to assist with the matter.”

“I don’t believe you,” Greg teases. “The British government himself learning to delegate?”

Mycroft’s eyes crinkle as he steps closer. “Something about foxes and tricks?”

“Let me finish up here,” Greg feels his whole body sway towards Mycroft. “We’ll have that drink together.” God he wants to be held. Instead Mycroft steps closer and away again, in and out, gathering glasses and a bottle, bowls and the gelato that somehow always exists in his freezer. It’s definitely not a brand they sell at Tesco’s. With a little nod, Mycroft disappears into the living room, and Greg finishes the dishes quickly. He sets them to drip, washes his hands, and joins Mycroft on his sofa.

“Where do you get this stuff?” He mumbles around a mouthful of pear. The flavour of the week, it tastes ripe and sweet, just like the perfect pear would taste.

“Down the street,” Mycroft nods in the general direction of the fancy shops near his flat.

“They do take-away?” A shrug. Probably not then. Greg can’t help but grin. ‘Impossible’ has never been enough to stop a Holmes. “Have you ever had Ben and Jerry’s?”

“God no,” his eyes sparkle, it’s dark and comfortable here. Getting late enough that Greg should’ve been asleep.

“I’ll have you try some one day,” Greg tries.

“If you’re prepared to use what I’m sure would qualify as excessive force.”

“Are you joking?” Greg can’t help himself, he feels his grin crack open his face. Mycroft looks shy and comfortable, once again without his jacket. “You are joking. Look at you.”

They smile at each other until the clock on the mantle sounds midnight and they both startle. “I’ve kept you late,” Mycroft frowns, “and you’ve not even had your drink.”

“Worth it,” Greg promises, hoping to make the frown go away. “I’m having a good time.” Mycroft is still frowning. Not eating his ice cream anymore. “If you need me to get out of your hair so you can go to sleep I’ll just finish in a second.”

“No.” Still frowning. “I’d rather... this. Than sleep.”

“Alright,” Greg feels his cheeks colour at what seems like an admission. Mycroft’s having a good time too. “Does this mean I get to have some of that whiskey you’ve been bragging about?”

A sly smile, bright grey eyes. Mycroft leans forward to pour them both a glass, the crystal sings as they toast. “To magnificent whiskey,” Mycroft says, and Greg can’t tear his eyes away as he watches him take a careful sip and shudder in pleasure. It’s more than he can bear. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Mycroft is looking at him. The strangest expression on his face. “If I’d ask you to stay.” He says.

“I’d ask if there could be kissing,” Greg sits up on his knees, sets down the whiskey blindly, hears Mycroft set his own glass down. Doesn’t see anything as he leans closer, breathes in Mycroft and warmth and then he drowns in the taste of whiskey.

Soft and warm, eager and happy, Greg lets his hands drift up and open Mycroft’s collar to the sound of soft hums. Mycroft’s hands find his hair and pull it gently, bring Greg closer. “You have to wake up in five hours,” Mycroft says, in between kisses.

“I’ll call in sick,” Greg promises, kissing Mycroft deeper, shuffling forward. Hands slide down his back, a finger trails back and forth between his trousers and his warm back. It makes him shiver and moan. “Bedroom.”

Mycroft leads Greg down the hall, into a quiet bedroom that smells of the night air. Mycroft pushes him back against the door after closing it. He kisses Greg all over his face. “Anything you don’t like?”

“Pain,” Greg kisses back where he can reach, pulls Mycroft in by his hips so they can grind against each other. “Requests to use my real police handcuffs.”

Mycroft snorts. “I do not like to be restrained.”

After that, they only pause their kissing to close the curtains and take of their clothes, facing each other in the peaceful bedroom. Greg is done first, and he stands up, tries to look proud. Feels Mycroft’s eyes on him before he manages to take in the expression on his face. “Gorgeous,” Mycroft promises.

“You too,” Greg says, stepping closer to trail a hand down Mycroft’s side. His skin is pale in the low light, he feels warm and male and Greg has to hold back a moan when he gets pulled in for more kissing. The touch of skin to skin, the heat between them, the noises Mycroft makes, all of it makes him want to stay in this moment and move on to the next in equal parts.

“Bed,” Mycroft pushes him back until he has to sit down. A palm on his chest forces him to lie back. With a bit of shuffling both of them are on top of the covers, Mycroft hovering over Greg, careful not to touch his erection.

Greg pushes out his hips, so eager for touch, and whines when Mycroft sits back. The question in his eyes is clear and so Greg nods. He is rewarded with the comforting weight of Mycroft sitting on his thighs, leaning forward, their cocks comings together as they kiss. “You,” he pants, “are magnificent.” He wriggles his hand between them and plays with Mycroft’s cock. Heavy and hot, the skin sliding easily. His other hand slides up Mycroft’s thigh as Mycroft grabs his face tighter and kisses him harder still. Greg lets his fingertips move in until he’s touching, then shuffles so he can reach and breaches Mycroft slowly with his middle finger.

Mycroft gasps into Greg’s mouth and his hips stutter. “If you – want,” he manages, “I’m too close.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Greg whispers, pushing his finger in further, tightening his grip.

Mycroft’s eyes fly open and fix on his face, “is this my only chance?”

“No,” Greg is shaking his head, keeps the eye contact, “every day, if you’ll have me.”

With a sigh and a shudder, Mycroft shifts closer, making it easier for Greg to reach, and Greg speeds up his movements. Pushes deeper, finds a rhythm that stops Mycroft’s breathing before it comes back in. Ragged, desperate. Beautiful. Beautiful also when he comes, groaning and twitching, all over Greg’s chest.

He sits back, his eyes still closed, on Greg’s thighs, and uses two hands to play with his balls, bending all the way down to suck on just the tip of Greg’s cock and then he too is coming, aching, trying to breathe, to let Mycroft’s shoulder go.

The grin he gets for his efforts is feral and dangerous and he kisses it until he can’t breathe.

 

The next morning a clean suit is hanging from the coat rack when Greg gets up to get some coffee. Sneaky Anthea.


End file.
